


the root of all things

by kangeiko



Category: Carnivale
Genre: F/M, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-05
Updated: 2009-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangeiko/pseuds/kangeiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>She's not a mother to him; it's never been as simple as that.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the root of all things

**Author's Note:**

> For bluerosefairy.

She thinks she would have liked a child. As a small girl, motherhood had been a certainty in her life, and she wonders if she ever gave up that particular want. She remembers being no more than three or four, and the heavy weight of her doll in her hands tiring her out beyond imagining. Her little arms, still plump with babyness, had numbed from the heavy loll of the china head; the stiff curl of hair scratched uncomfortably against her skin. It was her best doll - her only doll - and she loved it beyond words, beyond her limited comprehension. It was so very beautiful, and so perfectly formed, like a small replica of herself, in its very own little velveteen outfit.

She's only a little girl, and holding the doll tires her out easily. With her limited, helpless dexterity, she finds it difficult to sit the doll down in such a way that it is not in danger of falling, its delicate china head shattering into a million tiny pieces. After her third attempt fails, and the doll topples over into her waiting arms, she gives up. She sits herself on the chair instead, holding the doll across her lap with mingled love and fury as her legs numbed and her skin prickled. The doll's moving eyes swung back and forth with every tiny movement, sweeping long soot-black lashes across the painted cheeks.

There she sat for a while, awash in adoration and disgust for the weight across her legs. She remembers sitting there a long time, but it can't have been that long; no one would leave such a small child unattended. Eventually, her mother came to look for her, and took the doll away. She remembers the scratch of her mother's sleeve as she leaned down and plucked the doll from her. She remembers the relief and tiny, impotent rage at having that beloved, resented weight taken away.

She remembers the shock she felt when her mother handed her something even heavier and more perplexing to hold. He had tiny little eyes that blinked up at her in their own syncopated rhythm, regardless of how carefully she lifted him in her arms. Her mother sat beside her and carefully positioned her grip around the small parcel, tiny flailing hands and feet trying to escape from the swaddling cloth.

"See," her mother said, and lifted the baby so he could burble nothingness in her ear. "See how he loves you. He thinks you're his mother."

"No," she said with conviction, while the weight wriggled and squirmed in her grasp, reaching out to grab and yank on her hair. "No, he doesn't."

A lifetime later, with that familiar weight in and around her, she will feel his hot breath ghost across her cheek again. She's not a mother to him; it's never been as simple as that.

"Iris," he whispers, and his fingers dig greedily into her neck, tipping her head back. "_Irina_."

It's all she's ever needed.

*

fin


End file.
